


His And Yours And Mine

by ackermom



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, F/M, Pregnancy, Unwanted Pregnancy, idk it's kind of canon compliant but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-08-24 11:25:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16639079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ackermom/pseuds/ackermom
Summary: It was a means, in the end. Historia feels that everyday, lingering inside of her, a bitter reminder of the fate she chose for herself. Perhaps that was why she called Mikasa there, because someone had to suffer for what she'd done.





	His And Yours And Mine

**Author's Note:**

> this fails the bechdel test

 

"Did you tell the truth?" Historia asks between their lips. "Were you in love with him?"

Mikasa's words breathe on her skin. "I only loved him."

 

* * *

 

She came to court without hesitation.

She is a good soldier, after all, and the queen's orders did not waver. But Historia still wondered what she was doing there, how much she knew. Some things are worth keeping secret, and some secrets-

The afternoon was golden as the waxing spring sun spilled its beams across the courtyard, touching light and shadow on the cobblestones beneath their feet. They drank a young wine, tender after the long winter. It bubbled on Historia's tongue when she took a sip. She watched carefully, to herself, as Mikasa's motions mimicked hers: up, back, then down, finally, once Historia had set her own glass aside.

How things changed between the two of them.

"We never slept together," Mikasa said, without Historia having to ask.

It almost caught her off-guard. The abruptness of Mikasa's ability to read her mind. Almost, but not quite. She knew Mikasa, or at least she once did. She still knew her ways. 

Mikasa must have known too, then, that a queen would never ask. There was nothing to ask, in the end, because there was nothing to hold onto. There was never anything real, and though sometimes it felt tender between Historia's fingertips, so close to touching her skin, what they had, in the end, it wasn't-

It was a means, in the end. Historia feels that everyday, lingering inside of her, a bitter reminder of the fate she chose for herself. Perhaps that was why she called Mikasa there, because someone had to suffer for what she'd done. 

"I've heard that you shared a bed," Historia said, regardless, because she could.

Mikasa hardly blinked. "We never had sex, I mean."

She spoke the taboo bluntly, as if she did not sit with her commander, her queen. She spoke so plainly that the red thought occurred to Historia: virgins blush and stutter. Then again, Mikasa was never one to call pure. 

"The matter is inconsequential," Historia said. She laid one hand on the table, the patterns of the tablecloth pressing into the pads of her fingers. "The personal lives' of my- of soldiers, it's none of my business."

"He's the father of your child," Mikasa said. 

Historia tightened her jaw.

"He's not  _mine_ ," she said. "And he is nothing to my child."

"If you had wanted," Mikasa started.

She cut her tongue as she thought. She stared past Historia, a distant gaze into the blossoming trees, and Historia waited in the silence. She waited. Her fingernails drummed against the garden table, a dull rhythm on the lace tablecloth, and Historia wondered if she ought to warn the soldier, remind her, but then-

"It helped me sleep," Mikasa said. "To be near him."

She always spoke simply: the consequence of a life with consequences. But then, she hesitated. Something about her tone fell off-balance, and she spoke around a thought, dancing her words in circles as Historia studied her from across the table.

"We shared a bed, sometimes," Mikasa continued.

The dark wrinkles of her uniform brushed against the tablecloth as she shifted in her seat.

"If you had wanted," Mikasa said. "We wouldn't have minded."

It dawned on Historia slowly.

"He was fond of you," Mikasa said. "He didn't want anything from you, that is, he never expected anything, but if you had wanted, then I think-"

"He wasn't in love with me," Historia exclaimed. 

It could not be a question. Not even a thought. But Mikasa considered it carefully, her gaze guarded as she blinked across the table.

She said, softly, "I don't know."

The tension slipped from Historia's jaw.

"He didn't want to leave you," Mikasa said, and though she held her tongue there, though her gaze stayed still and straight, the missing words lingered in the air between them:  _like this_.

Historia took her hand from the table.

"This isn't about me," she said.

Her gown was loose silk with an arched waist, but the belt of her jacket strained across her stomach.  _He_ isn't about her, she thought, she knew (she had always known), and when she turned her glare across the table, she was curious to see that Mikasa was thinking the same thing.

For a moment, their eyes met beneath the golden sun. 

"No," Mikasa said to Historia. "This isn't about either of us."

The queen waited, a bitter sneer lingering on her lips. She wasn't certain what she hoped to gain from an interrogation; some satisfaction, perhaps, to ease the pain that she had caused herself, to take something from someone else. To watch someone else lose for once.

She will never forget it, the awkward fumbling night in her bedchambers, their tender lips pressed together in a silent imitation of something real. The way their bodies melted together. But she was glad to push him away in the dawn, secreted out of the castle before anyone knew.

No one could know; so she reasoned, perhaps, in some private part of her mind, that if she could soil Mikasa, demote her, humiliate her-

She had never thought of herself as a jealous girl. She had never thought of herself as anything- a figurehead, standing as high as she could, balancing on a windowsill- but certainly not a girl to fall for juvenile tricks, who laid claim with her eyes and bit back with her tongue. But she had felt something, that restless morning walking through stone halls, wondering how to bear her choices, when she'd watched Mikasa slip out of Eren's room and into the daylight, her hair tousled from fitful sleep, her half-buttoned shirt revealing bare skin beneath the glint of a silver sunrise.

She had been beautiful, and Historia had hated her.

So she waited. 

But Mikasa said nothing more, merely turned her gaze upwards, past the stone walls and to the mountains; she let the pink shadows cross her face, the sun painting something quiet and tender on her skin. Something comforting, if comfort was something they knew how to feel.

"It's inconsequential," Historia lied. "He's not the father."

Mikasa turned to her queen.

"I know," she obeyed.

She is a good soldier, after all. 


End file.
